


AMARANTHINE

by arsenouselation



Series: the fathomless stars [2]
Category: Norse Mythology, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mostly Dialogue, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Movie, Tragedy, love triangle in a really angsty way?, script/dialogue format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenouselation/pseuds/arsenouselation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AMARANTHINE—a closet drama of Shadow and Light—is presented in three tableaux, clarioned by the two women who loves and has loved the fallen prince of Asgard in their own separate ways: the Lady Sif, a childhood friend and Sigyn, his wife.</p><p>"Did you love him?"<br/>"Do you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	AMARANTHINE

**Author's Note:**

> This serves as a companion fic to my upcoming Sigyn/Loki piece. Here, I made Sigyn’s race a Ljósalfr, light elf—  
> I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED.

 

AMARANTHINE  
_(variations of bereavement)_

Sif / Loki / Sigyn

 

=

 

 

> _Fly far, far away from this baneful miasma_  
>  And purify yourself in the celestial air,  
>  Drink the ethereal fire of those limpid regions  
>  As you would the purest of heavenly nectars.  
>  —Charles Baudelaire; Fleurs du Mal, _Elevation_

 

_AMARANTHINE—a closet drama of Shadow and Light—is presented in three tableaux, clarioned by the two women who loves and has loved the fallen prince of Asgard in their own separate ways: the Lady Sif, a childhood friend and Sigyn, his wife._

_Each scene happens in a singular place on different timelines, before or after Loki’s fall. The characters do not age in this play, as the ageing process of Asgardians and Elves is remarkably decelerated. No drop curtains are used; transitions are shown through shadows, lights and closing doors. We, the audience, stand in a convenient space outside of the setting (a balcony overlooking the Bifröst and the sea Urdr). Here, we are faceless witnesses of heartache and bereavement._

_Look; watch. In the rarified quiet of Gladsheim’s observatory—Hlidskjalf—_ a story is retold.

^

_Hlidskjalf is a cathedral of the heavens. A sanctuary swathed in indigo walls and eternal twilight. The observatory is a sprawling hall, a covered colonnade. One side of the HlidskJalf was filled to the brim with books, scrolls, astronomical tools; while the other side was dominated with colossal columns that led to the balcony. The ceiling is so high that it is enshrouded in darkness, out of light’s reach._

_Pale and powder blue light comes from the Asgardian sky-vault, from a hundred million stars, bathing everything in its path._

_In the middle of the observatory stands a gueridon, holding a small, glowing replica of Yggdrasil. A little ways beyond it is a great table with a chair behind it. The table’s surface and surrounding vicinity is occupied with piles and piles of tomes and charts. Their texts and diagrams flutter in shadows under the light of a lone glass lanthorn._

∞

 

 

 

> _To be your old self again, and yet not quite it. Something has been lost, and something gained.  
>  _ —Gemino H. Abad, _Letter to a Young Poet_

ACT I — IRE

_[From this view, there is no one in Hlidskjalf – until the great doors open quietly, and Lady Sif enters the place. She wears a gown of mauve and silver uncharacteristic of her, her dark hair adorned with a glass hairpin in the shape of a wing. An emerald ribbon is tied around her left wrist: a sign of mourning. The ribbon is the only sign of bereavement, as Lady Sif’s efficacious countenance does not betray the turbulence in her heart._

_Behind her an elegy drifts through the open doors, twisting in and around columns of the observatory._

_For a long moment she stands still, face carefully schooled into vacuity. Her hands are limp at her side, as if she has already accepted that Loki is dead. Then, with sudden bravado she walks towards the empty study table, steps steady, bearing proud. Sif’s eyes roam the cluttered surface, searching for a sign of the prince whose silence is full; laden with secrets. Loki, with his eyes the color of emerald spring._

_Sif stops by the gueridon, face lit by the light from the replica.]_

**SIF:** _(quiet, languished)._ This place is as familiar to him as his own palm. This is where he discovered the secret of the stars, charted them. Spun them around in his fingers… It’s as if it was only yesterday that he was here, mapping the endless word labyrinth in these tomes.   
_(her voice turns bitter, talking to the empty space)._ There is no recompense for what _you_ did. Letting go like that. You should’ve—now look what at what you’ve left. This place reeks of your memory, Loki. Every corner whispers your presence; you have made a ghost of yourself… and your wife. There is no righteousness in that, making us all suffer. Don’t you see? We love you, and I _—_  
_(she swallows her words painfully, turns on her heel and walks out of the observatory.)_

^

 _[Hlidskjalf’s doors close. Silence envelopes the place once more. The light from the lanthorn flickers, sending shadows to dance across the floor and bookshelves then – darkness for a long moment._  
Then fire blossoms in the lanthorn, bright and undulating. Time has rewound its thread and we find Loki seated at the table, reading. His posture is languorous, leaning at the backrest as he attempts to read a tome, pale fingers turning a page lazily. Loki’s mind is elsewhere; the book merely an object of pretense to show that he is busy and cannot be disturbed.  
Sif enters the observatory with a purpose, her lips set in a grim line. Clad in her customary armor of red and silver, she is always prepared for battle. She stops in front of the desk, fists clenched at her sides. Notes with apprehension that Loki has become quieter, even more reserved than before. As if she has already become an outsider to his already narrow circle.

_As if something has already been lost between them.]_

**LOKI:** _(glances disinterestedly at her then returns to his book)._ To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Sif?  
SIF: Loki, Sigyn is down by the training grounds again. _(the name rolls of her tongue easier than she expects).  
(Loki’s fingers pause for a millisecond. Then he proceeds to turn another page, as if he has already dismissed her words entirely. Sif interprets this as apathy.)_

 **SIF:** Didn’t you hear me? I said—  
**LOKI:** I heard you perfectly, Sif. Leave her be.  
**SIF:** ( _anger rising in her voice)._ She’s your wife! Do you not care? Her wound has not even healed yet!  
**LOKI:** And what would you have me do, tell her to stop from bleeding herself out?  
**SIF:** Why not? She’s come close to the brink of death the last time. Need I remind you, Asgard’s healing room with all its sanative herbs do little for her! Loki, s _he’s your wife!_  
**LOKI:** _(scoffs)._ And what is this seemingly newfound concern for…—how did Fandral call her? —oh yes, the _‘delightful, little half-breed’_?  
**SIF:** I and the Warrior’s Three, even Thor… we all bear concern for Sigyn. Because her husband apparently does not have any.  
_(The strand of provocation is strummed and Loki stands, snapping the book shut. He clenches his jaw, eyes suddenly burning with cold anger. Sif stands her ground, knowing full well that Loki does not back down from an insulting challenge.)_  
**LOKI:** _(seethes, but his voice is smooth and low—enunciating every word carefully)._ Do not presume to know the sentiments I have for _my_ wife, Lady Sif.

  
_(His words cut her like knives but Sif ignores a dull ache as her heart curls in on itself.)_  
**SIF:** I do not presume, prince Loki. _I know._ Don’t think I didn’t see.  
**LOKI:** _(scoffs)._ See what, exactly?  
**SIF:** _(reluctantly)._ When Sigyn came back from Alfheim, maimed with those damnable daggers, I saw. You pulled the poisoned blades out without remorse. _(accusingly)._ You could’ve benumbed her pain with your magic. But you didn’t. _(shudders at the memory of Sigyn’s cries ringing from the healing room)._ Why didn’t you?

  
_(Something flashed in Loki’s eyes and for a brief moment, Sif is almost convinced that Loki will hit her. But he does not; in the fragile silence, they both regard each other tensely: one in defiance, the other in ire. Finally—)_  
**LOKI:** You think me heartless, Sif.  
**SIF:** _(swallows)._ True.  
**LOKI:** _(his anger dissipates and suddenly he looks tired)._ It is tiring, Sif, to be told what to do. To not have your own choice, to be subjugated. I think you know this best of all. _(glances at her, almost amused)._ You went through the discriminations of being a woman and you detested it, did you not? So you struck back by becoming a warrior. And look at you now, here you are.  
**SIF:** Do not compare my tribulations to hers. We are different.  
_(—and with that difference, she has_ you _)_.

 **LOKI:** _(shakes his head, gazes down at the table between them)._ Perhaps. But what you’ve been through and what Sigyn is now going through, they are nearly the same. She has been a handmaid all of her life, serving the Æsir who contemn her kind. The discrimination of your gender and her Elven roots, for you to be forced to do something you don’t want… aren’t they the same?  
Now she is the wife of one, which is not that far off. I promised Sigyn a fragment of freedom and she intends to use it as much as she can. Sif, she loathes this union just as much as the court hates her. But she does not complain. She receives cruelty, bears them for Asgard to see; because she knows that her presence alone is blaspheme to the Æsir. That is good enough for her.  
**SIF:** That does not justify _your_ actions. You allow her this debasing behavior because of twisted circumstance?  
**LOKI:** _(angrily)._ You are not _listening._ Or have you traded your nous for prowess in battle? I cannot stop her, Sif. I can’t go back on my word. I promised her in the beginning that I will allow her to have whatever freedom she can scrape from our betrothal. Every time she’s in trouble, Sigyn refuses my magic, spurns the help I offer. _(looks away, face unreadable)._ She makes herself suffer and endure cruelty, knowing that I know, that I _see_ … _(exhales deeply)._ That’s her retaliation _to me._

(Sif is stilled into silence, realization dawning upon her. Somehow, the prince before her has changed. For good or for worse, Sif does not know—and it frights her. It pulls at her chest, threatening to burst and drown her. _Is this the love of Loki?_ Somewhere beneath the rough exterior, Sif’s fearless heart breaks.

Loki moves to leave the observatory, his mouth drawn in a thin line. He is almost at the door when Sif finds her voice.)

 **SIF:** _(quietly)._ You love her.  
**LOKI:** _(pauses in his stride, unsure if what he heard in Sif’s voice is ache)._ Do not linger here, Lady Sif. The peace of Hlidskjalf does not befit you.

 _[The doors of Hlidskjalf close behind the god prince. Lady Sif regards the lanthorn with rarely-practiced restraint. Her eyes, brimming with resolve and mettle, catch the quivering light._ Yes, that is Loki in love. _And she almost smiles, if not for the fact that the Norns have been cruel to her._

_Sif slowly swipes her hand over the lanthorn and the light is extinguished and there is darkness again.]_

∞

 

 

 

> If freckles were lovely, and day was night,  
>  And measles were nice and a lie wasn't a lie,  
>      Life would be delight,--  
>      But things couldn't go right  
>     For in such a sad plight  
>  _I_ wouldn't be _I_.
> 
> If earth was heaven and now was hence,  
>  And past was present, and false was true,  
>      There might be some sense  
>      But I'd be in suspense  
>      For on such a pretense  
>  _You_ wouldn't be _you_.
> 
> If fear was plucky, and globes were square,  
>  And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee  
>      Things _would_ seem fair,--  
>      Yet they'd all despair,  
>      For if here was there  
>  _We_ wouldn't be _we_.  
>  —e. e. cummings, _If_

ACT II — COLLUSION

_[Out of the shadows appears Sigyn. She takes a step out of the roofed confines of Hlidskjalf and onto the balcony. Under the eternal twilight of the Asgardian sky, her limbs are evidently weary, and her eyes—eyes that have eldritch ability to see everything in detail—is dark with fatigue. Her ochre hair, running down in lank waves at her back, is tangled and unkempt. Sigyn moves in her comely gown of blue and white with gracelessness because even after all this time, she has not accustomed herself to fit in the ways of Æsir. There is no green ribbon around her wrist, but she wears the sunstone necklace Loki has given her. This, along with her pitiable appearance, is taken by the court as the righteous outcome of a grieving widow._

_They are mistaken._

_The cry from Heimdall’s Gjallarhorn echoes all throughout Asgard and beyond the Nine Realms. The Asgardians have all gathered at the entrance of the half-dissevered Bifröst Bridge, all of them wearing the ribband of green. Odin Allfather, Frigga and the other Æsir all stand by the shore, with Thor leading the pallbearers of Loki’s empty ship-casket. It is Sigyn’s right and obligation to stand with Thor, to set it on fire and send it off to the sea of Urdr, but she finds herself sick with the hypocrisy of it all._

_So she stays in Hlidskjalf, watches as the realm accepts Loki’s death.]_

**SIGYN:** _(touches the necklace strung around her neck.)._ Your anger has tided over the shores of your self, crashing, sweeping, until it has taken away the very sands of your soul. I know you’ve done this to scorn your father and your brother, but why do you include me too? We have clapperclawed, tricked and jested each other but this, this one I do not deserve. Are we not bedfellows in devilry?  
  
_(quietly as she watches the ship-casket being lowered by the water)._ If this is one of your petty tricks just to spite all the wrongs I’ve done you, then it is your cruelest yet.  
So even now I am watching carefully, Loki. Because you promised a marvelous show of thaumaturgy. And if your idea of a good show is Asgard laughably mourning for your death, why are you not here to laugh with me?  
_[By the bridge, the Asgardians have lit their vigil lanterns just as the Thor places Loki’s sword, Laevateinn in the prow of the casket. Then the Allfather steps forward, places a ring of Draupnir in Laevateinn’s hilt. Sigyn’s mouth slackens as Frigga leans unto the casket and lays on the cushion a bowknot of golden thread. There is finality in their actions, inscribing the memory of Loki to the ends of Asgard for he will not return. Not to his home.]_

 _(she looks up the sky, tries to discern the stars she and Loki had once mapped)._ Indeed, delightful beginnings have violent ends.

_[Sigyn does not look when the Gjallarhorn commences the final rite. She cannot bring herself to watch when they light Loki’s ship-casket. Even when the Asgardians have started to sing the songs of elegy, lifted their arms up as they release the vigil lights in the air. Unto the heavens. Among the stars, Sigyn finds solace as her vision blurs._

_…_

_For a long while after the funeral, Sigyn does not leave the balcony. She gazes into the distance where the sea ends. It is the grim Hogun who finds her and wordlessly takes her away from Hlidskjalf. They disappear in the shadows of the observatory, their footsteps echoing in the silence.]_

^

_[Sparks and then light, burning in the lanthorn. Quivering against the observatory’s walls. Time has pulled back its wing, and on the space between the desk and the gueridon are Loki and Sigyn in a slow, unversed terpsichore. Music, conjured by Loki’s magic, sifts in between the light and the silence._

_The contrast between them is severe:  
Sigyn is all exactitude and roughness, with her dirty mickle of dirty ochre hair, grey eyes, willowy limbs, showing even in her worn tunic—a scrawny light elf, Ljósalfr, serving as an armour-bearer to the Æsir. Loki is all mischief and careless elegance, with his neat black hair, bright green eyes, the sinuous strength in his movement, radiating through his lightweight armor—the son of Odin, a prince of Asgard._

_Sigyn’s hands are terse on Loki’s arm and hand, her gaze locked at his footwork. The prince’s patience is wearing thin, marked by the scowl on his face. Even with their current tempo and Sigyn’s inherent elfin flexibility, she finds herself stumbling over Loki’s feet.]_

**LOKI:** _(grumbles)._ Your dancing is _insufferable._ Aren’t elves supposed to be well-versed in terpsichore?  
**SIGYN:** We are. But you Asgardians have a twisted sense of dancing with these—these _irksome_ steps!  
**LOKI:** They won’t be so irksome if you stop complaining and actually _try_.  
**SIGYN:** _(scoffs)._ Says the grouchy prince.

 _(Loki gives her a mildly irritated look as he forcibly turns her with the music. Sigyn trips on her feet, halting their steps.)_  
**SIGYN:** I hate this. _(straightens herself and glowers at Loki)._ And you are a despicable teacher, prince.  
**LOKI:** _(cracks a wide sarcastic smile)._ Oh dear obstinate pupil, I live off of your righteous misery. I am thoroughly evil for pitting you in this form of simple torture. But, lest _you_ forget, this dance is mandated by the Allfather. That extends not only to the Æsir, but to you as well.  
**SIGYN:** _(nettled)._ And if I may ask, dear prince, as to whose fault is that? Your mischief is what brought this upon us.  
**LOKI:** What? From what I remember Sigyn, you were all fain with my ‘mischief’ towards the Æsir. When it comes back to bite you in the rump, you blame it on me?  
_(Sigyn hastily utters an elven rune to cloak the observatory in silence—knowing of Heimdall the gatekeeper’s power.)_  
**SIGYN:** I didn’t know that it’ll lead to me spending an eternity _with_ you! If only I have known, I wouldn’t have associated myself to your royal _princeliness_ and would have stayed happily as a lowly squire. _(sneers)._  
**LOKI:** You hate being a servant; your contempt for Asgard, for us Æsir, might be veiled with silent deference, but it is no secret to _me._ Spare me your lies; you have no talent for it.  
**SIGYN:** Well why don’t you use _your_ talent for it? I’m sure you could talk Odin Allfather out of his edict to our _betrothal_ —  
**LOKI:** _(grits his teeth as his hand crushes Sigyn’s)._ You think I want this—that I have not tried? My father is as unwavering as a bilgesnipe. He is strictest to me and Thor, his own sons. He will not bend his word just because I asked.

  
_(They exchange venomous looks for a long moment, Sigyn clenching Loki’s arm tightly as his hand does the same to hers. In the background, the music continues in broken notes as Loki’s anger undulates just beneath the surface—)_  
**SIGYN:** _(sighs resignedly)._ So, there is no other way out of this, then.  
**LOKI:** No, I don’t think so.  
**SIGYN:**. . . I don’t have to wear a cow helmet like yours, do I?  
**LOKI:** Now you disrespect my armor, the very one you so energetically burnished when you were assigned to the court?  
**SIGYN:** ( _embarrassed)._ Well it was that or polish Fandral’s sword, which I think involves more than a rag and oil.  
_(Loki laughs at Sigyn’s reddened face, stopping the music entirely.)_

 **LOKI:** How you would react to Fandral’s horrendous advances must be a sight to behold. Surely it rivals that monstrous look of satisfaction on your face whenever you manage to rile the gods up.  
**SIGYN:** So you have taken to watching me, prince Loki?  
_(teasingly)._ Be careful Loki, people might think that you are actually taken with me, betrothal aside.   
**LOKI:** _(laughs)._ Not so much as you have watched me when you tended to my baths, squire. Be careful Sigyn, people might think that you are actually taken with me, betrothal aside.

 _(Scandalously looks around if anyone has heard then, realizing she has conjured a rune of silence, turns glower up at the prince’s amused look)._    
**SIGYN:** I only made sure that it the water is devoid of poison. _(hisses)._ And I stayed outside of the bathhouse, you misdirected cur.  
**LOKI:** It seemed to me as if you were disinclined to leave, seeing the athirst look on your fey eyes.  
_(feigns terror)._ Heimdall knows what could have happened if I have not my seiðr to defend my body against your _plundering_.  
**SIGYN:** Why, I ought to—  
_(Sigyn steps closer, about to hit him when she realizes that Loki is still holding her hand. Surprised, they both stare at their clasped hands for a long moment._

_It is interesting to note that they can hold such a volatile conversation whilst holding their dance positions. Loki recovers himself first, turning his gaze to her; their noses just a hair’s breadth apart. Loki studies Sigyn’s face for brief second before pulling a most charming smile._

_Sigyn sees this and pulls away from him. Consciously, she dispels the rune of silence.)_

**LOKI:** _(laughs)._ See? You have the most comical of reactions. And the nastiest tongue too.  
**SIGYN:** Well forgive me if my tongue is not as refined as yours, _Loki_ _Silvertongue_.  
**LOKI:** Now that you mention it, I should probably teach you my silver-tongued ways.

 _(Sigyn’s eyes drift down to Loki’s mouth and she flushes once more)._  
**LOKI:** _(raises an elegant eyebrow)._ You know, for a light elf, you have such a dirty mind. That should be _flogged_ from you, Sigyn. Shall I?  
**SIGYN:** _(splutters)._ You—you make fun of me with your _deliberate_ words!  
**LOKI:** Fun? I simply fear for my virtue on the matrimonial bed.

 **SIGYN:** _(stares at Loki, bewildered)._ What? You intend to take it that far?  
**LOKI:** Are you daft? _Of course not._ I don’t desire to sire any child of yours.  
**SIGYN:** Neither do I—

 _(At that moment the doors of Hlidskjalf swing open, revealing a messenger bearing Odin’s summons for Loki and Sigyn. When the messenger has left, the prince and the squire exchange a look.)_  
**SIGYN:** Are we in trouble?  
**LOKI:** _(pale hands fumble inside his leather outer tunic; Sigyn watches him curiously)._ Wait, you must wear this.  
_(Loki pulls out a silver necklace, an aventurine pendant hanging from it. He drops the jewelry unto Sigyn’s hand.)_  
**SIGYN:** _(holds it gingerly)._ What’s this?  
**LOKI:** A necklace, most obviously. __  
**SIGYN** **:** What more than that? __  
_(Loki turns away, suddenly interested at their shadows upon the wall. Silence.)_ _  
_**SIGYN** **:** Surly mongrel. _(Loki shoots her a warning glance)._ I mean, most beloved Loki _._ Would you care to elaborate?

 **LOKI:** It’s a gift. For our… betrothal. _(minute hesitance, and he bites out—)_ Wear it; I’ll wait for you outside.

_[Loki walks out of the observatory, his pace brisk. Sigyn stares after his retreating back, eyebrows raised. Then she recovers herself, hastily wrapping the necklace around her wrist and runs after Loki.]_

∞

 

 

 

> _One fire burns out another’s burning,  
>  One pain is lessen’d by another’s burning  
>  _ —William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

ACT III— AFTER, LOVE

_[Asgard continues to thrive. Lady Sif and Sigyn stand side by side in the balcony of the palace observatory. Sif has donned her armor once more, now that the time of mourning has passed. She holds herself upright, waging glorious battles in the Nine realms. Sigyn, on the other hand, is withering under her splendid robes. She has been locking herself up more and more in Hlidskjalf, tirelessly perusing the tomes day and night. But now they both stand together, watching the distant figure of Thor stand with Heimdall on the edge of the Bifröst._

_They talk, they laugh; weaving their memories of the lost prince in a great tapestry. Suddenly—]_

**SIGYN:** Did you love him?

 **SIF:** _(turns to look at her)._ Do you?

_[Eons’ worth of words passes in between them, sieving in the air, in the silence, just as Loki’s seiðr once did. And they know. They understand.]_


End file.
